I could lie to you and say that I’d been quiet recently because I’ve been lazy and doing nothing much of any import or excitement. Or that I’ve been a bit poorly and distracted by matters of incarceration and my nan dying, and being worried about my grandad.
But in actual fact it’s time to announce that I’m suspending this blog until we have resolved the US economic crisis.
What a fun-packed and eventful weekend.
After work on Friday we went to The Swan to catch up with our newly famous, professional circus operative, Mats, who was back in Leicester for the week. He’s fine. The evening involved lots of gossip about a certain Scot and the sordid, bohemian living going on at Ferrel these days, and the prevelence of opinion that the virile young Mats is unconsciously very, very gay. He took it well. A drunken conversation with Mamphy hinted at the posibility of him performing at Chocfest next year, and an email to Durham suggests that we may be seeing a lot more of him before long.
Saturday commenced with a much needed shopping trip. We skirted round the new Hichcross centre which would look really very nice if it weren’t for all the natives dirtying up the place. It would appear that Leicester locals have never seen sushi before, nor stood on a glass bridge, judging by all the gaping mouths and ridiculous queues. We got home to find a Lizzy parked outside the house. Having arrived about four hours earlier than we’d anticipated, she had to stand around for a bit while I mopped and swept and tidied and Pete made noms. We then introduced her to Fear & Loathing (in which we noticed blatant precursors of Jack Sparrow hands) and sat around for a bit. Lizzy showed off her knitting skillz and photos of her new life dahn sarf, and then Rod arrived for an impromptu scary fillums evening.
We had invited Alan along for fillums but he declined on the basis that he was having much more fun with his Hungarian lady-friend. The whore. He missed out though. Rod managed an hilarious and extremely awkward phone call to order pizza from a retard, and we watched Sympathy For Mr Vengeance which cinematographically speaking was wonderful, but took a hell of a lot of concentration to follow properly and really really needs better subtitles. I may well be in the minority, but I don’t happen to be able to read Korean very well, and when the discovery of random notes is central to the plot, it might actually be nice to know what they all say. Harumph.
Sunday was our big day. We were up bright and early (ish), we all ate our breakfast, and after a few hiccups involving poos and flat tyres we were off! To Markfield. But once we’d got there and picked up Darren (who was actually ready and without need of nagging) we were properly off! To Buxton! To Go Ape! We met up with Barnesy&Suze and Min&Em for safe, controlled fun. A group of four lesbians joined our group 
and nearly ruined my special day, but went off on their own in the end and avoided it. We got our special harnessy-clipping-on training from a bloke who looked just so bored with his job but was really nice and funny. And then they just left us to it, and we climbed up rope ladders (Darren was very brave), and scooted along planks and swung between logs and jumped off platforms and slid on our bums and whooshed down wires and got woodchip in our pants 
and ran across bridges and clung onto trees and swayed and wobbled and gripped and swore and leapt into nets and whooped and screamed at each other and clipped and unclipped and crawled and slipped and hung on our bums 
and pulled ourselves about and closed our eyes and wriggled off ledges and flung ourselves at the ground and splished and splashed 
and laughed and laughed and laughed.
It took us three hours and twenty minutes to get round and I was sad when it ended. But by then it was hammering down and everything was getting just a little too wet and slippy for comfort. 
We were all drenched by the time we finished and had to get changed outside because they’d closed the toilet building. Bastards. 
But pub made it all better. I ate ‘Mega’ fish and chips (1lb of chips) and nearly finished it. I also cracked my head on a light a few too many times to find it amusing and Barnesy had a tantrum but it didn’t last long. And then it was home time and we drove back to Leicester feeling tired and happy. I took Monday off work in case I needed to recover. I’m so glad I did. I’ve got big cargo net shaped bruises on my biceps, and I’ve discovered tummy muscles I never had before. I’ve been trying just to sit still all day.
My best bit, by the way, was the Tarzan swing right at the end of the course where you jump off a platform out onto a cargo net. 
It’s high, and the cargo net is a loooong way away. And if you jump you get about two metres of free-fall before your pulley-whatsit kicks in and starts sliding you across to the net. And then you hit the net and it feels like you’ve smacked into a wall.
Awesome 
A young slip of a girl on ridiculously high heels comes teetering up to the issue desk, looking malnourished and vacant.
Girl: There’s a book waiting for me.
Me: OK, I’ll need your library card, please.
Girl: *Sigh*
Girl rummages through the hugest, ugliest bag in the world.
Me: Have you checked your pockets?
Girl: It’s not in my pocket. I never put it in my pocket.
Me: Have you checked though?
Girl: It’s in my bag, it’s always in my bag. I put it in my bag…
Me: Mmm, I’m sure.
Girl rummages for a couple of minutes while I serve someone else.
Me: You should check your pockets.
Girl: I had it in my hand a minute ago…
Me: You probably put it in your pocket, then.
Girl continues to rummage. I tidy away some paperwork.
Girl: Where is it? I can’t believe I’ve lost it!
I start checking my email.
Me: You probably put it in your pocket.
Girl: I don’t put it in my pocket because I always forget about it.
Me: It’s in your pocket. Please check your pocket.
Girl: It’s not in my pocket.
Girl tips bag out on to the floor.
I spend a couple of minutes answering the phone. When I come back, Girl is clutching at her hair.
Me: It’s in your pocket.
Girl: Look, it’s not in my pocket…
Me: It’s going to be in your pocket.
Girl: Why would I put it in my pocket?
Girl makes a show of turning out her pockets. Discovers library card.
Girl: Oh. I never put it in my pocket.
Me: Evidently.
This sort of conversation wouldn’t bother me so much if it wasn’t for the fact that I have to engage in it sometimes five or six times in a day. If there was ever any evidence for slipping standards in education it would be my harrassed, ticcing face at the end of each and every shift serving these socially inept retards.
Tuesday was horrific. I opened the bedroom curtains and saw Chas-the lovely old, affectionate cat from next door-lying in the middle of the road. And not moving. And very upsettingly dead.
So I grabbed a towel and went out to rescue her. It was awful; particularly the sensation of sagging, dead-weight when she’d been a lovely, delicate, feather-light petal of a thing beforehand. But I wrapped her up and gave her a cuddle and a nice woman stopped her car and came to check I was ok. And I didn’t cry.
Until I got inside. And then I wailed and keened, and if I’d known how to ululate, I would have done.
Unfortunately, the neighbours had both headed off to work already so I had to leave her in the house all day. Pete got the fun of breaking the news to them in the evening and making a pregnant woman cry. Apparently there was some rather undignified movement of the body involving boxes and rigor-mortis. I’m rather glad I wasn’t there to see it.
Chas was adorable. She was old and arthritic, and when she jumped off things that were a bit too high she’d limp a bit afterwards and look like she was muttering to herself. She slept under Philip a lot and had oily ears because of it. When you tickled her belly she’d do a forward roll onto her back, and she dribbled when she was particularly happy. She looked like big-eyed Puss n Boots from Shrek and we’ll miss her very, very much.